


wróżka

by bbuckyy



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Feelings Realization, Identity Reveal, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Secret Identity, Vomit Mention, actually beta read, mention of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24047320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbuckyy/pseuds/bbuckyy
Summary: jaskier has a secret, and geralt is trying to find the clues to figure out what it is.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 565





	wróżka

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the lovely @raidiation

Jaskier’s hands drive him.

They push and they pull.

They push and they pull and sometimes they have claws.

Geralt never sees them.

He never sees them push or pull and he never sees the claws.

He never sees them push or pull the edge of the forest, or the growl of a beast.

He never sees the claws swipe at monsters that Geralt has neglected to kill.

Jaskier’s mouth is soothing. 

It is soothing and it is filled with teeth.

The teeth can be sharp and dangerous, but Geralt doesn’t see them.

Geralt hears as his voice carries through the wood in a strange, haunting way. Not the way he sings in pubs, not the way he sings to children in town squares, only the way he sings to the forest. Because that is who he’s singing to.

Geralt does not know that.

Geralt only knows that, after they’ve been separated for too long, he finds it hard to look Jaskier in the eye, and he can never quite remember how tall Jaskier is, or how long his fingers used to be, how wide his smile should be. He only knows that when he’s with Jaskier the weather is always favorable, and he can always find enough to eat. He only knows that Jaskier has two voices, and sometimes they sing together.

He spends a long time accumulating glances.

He spends a long time trying to focus on memories that someone has made him forget, trying to piece together fuzzy edges and censored images from his past, things that can’t quite add up.

Were his eyes glowing, or was the moonlight merely reflecting off of them? Had those flowers sprouted around Jaskier, or had he simply not noticed them before? Were those horns atop his head, or were they only conveniently-posed branches framing him?

“Are you ever going to tell me?” They’ve been walking for days, and Geralt has started to notice how Jaskier seems to be tripping on purpose.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Geralt.” Jaskier trips again, flying just a bit too far forwards.

Geralt is shown more.

He knows that he is not simply seeing, no, he is being _shown_. He is allowed to know a secret. 

He is allowed to see the glint of Jaskier’s teeth as he smiles.

He is allowed to see the glaze over the tavern patrons’ eyes when Jaskier strums his first chord.

He is allowed to see the shimmer around the pool of water in the tree stump that Jaskier drinks from.

Jaskier is lithe and graceful.

He dances around tree roots and stones on the forest floor.

Unless he knows Geralt is watching him.

If he knows Geralt is watching him with those big swords on his back, he will trip and stumble and fall over every bump in the path they trudge. 

If he knows Geralt is watching him with those big swords on his back, and with potions that will make him unstoppable, unkillable, he will sing just a little worse than otherwise. He will make himself miss a string on his lute, or fall flat on a note every now and then. He will mispronounce a word, or force himself into a slant rhyme.

If he does _not_ know Geralt is watching him, he will float across the moss and soil effortlessly, never misplacing a foot, as if he has known every single pebble on the ground for all his life. 

If he does not know Geralt is watching him, he will harmonize with himself, and his lute will sound like a dozen instruments that Geralt has never heard before. He will sing lyrics in an unfamiliar language, every rhyme perfect, every stanza unblemished. 

Geralt begins to wonder if Jaskier is really unaware of his surveillance, or if, once again, he is being shared a secret.

Geralt has had enough. He is not fond of lies or secrets.

He hears Jaskier strumming his lute, and singing in a strange tongue, and walks up behind him.

“I’m not familiar with that one.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier turns pink, and his hair seems less shiny than it had been a moment before, less curly, “I didn’t hear you coming!”

“What were you playing?” 

“Oh, not really anything.” Jaskier has never been a good liar, “Just some nonsense, you know me!”

“Jaskier, I know.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve seen you. I’ve seen your teeth. I’ve heard you speak in a language I’ve never heard before. I’ve seen tree branches bend out of your way without you touching them.”

“Surely you must be mistaken. That’s impossible! Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Geralt is quiet for a beat. “Tell me what you are.”

“Geralt, I don’t know what you’re talking-”

“Tell me what you are.” Geralt is trying very hard to stay calm.

In an instant, Jaskier is no longer nervous. His hair glistens, and his eyes shine. Perhaps he grows a few inches taller as he sighs, and perhaps a few flowers bloom beneath his feet.

“I think you know, Geralt.”

“Tell me anyway. I need to hear it from you.”

Jaskier sighs. “I am Jaskier, Prince of the Seelie Court, son of Rzeka, Queen of the Faeries.”

Geralt’s pupils shrink into slits and his brows knit together. “Take it all off. I know there’s more.”

“Geralt, don’t make me do this-”

“ _Take it all off_.”

Jaskier looks away. The sun dips behind a cloud, perhaps on purpose. Jaskier’s shape grows hazy for a moment, as if Geralt were looking at him through a thick fog. When he comes back into focus, he is glorious.

He is tall, much taller than Geralt, thin arms and legs sprouting from his wide shoulders and thin hips. His face is sharper, with electric blue eyes nesting above a mouth just a little too wide, holding fangs sharper than any sword. His hair curls, and small yellow flowers peek through the waves. His large, delicate hands grow claws. From his forehead emerge long, twisting horns. His shoulder blades sprout two massive wings, the wings of a lark. Moss and mushrooms grow quickly on the log upon which Jaskier sits, and flowers bloom around his feet. 

Jaskier avoids Geralt’s startled gaze. If Geralt didn’t know better, he’d say he looked ashamed.

“I never meant for you to see this.”

“Then why keep giving me hints?”

“It starts to hurt, after a while, not using my magic. Feels like I’m drowning. I’ve got to let it out.”

“Then why hide it in the first place?”

Jaskier turns to meet Geralt’s eyes. Geralt finds that it almost stings. Jaskier’s eyes are shining and vibrant. “Because I wanted to see everything! I wanted to see people! If I meet them like this, they act strange. They’re afraid of me. And they have good reason to be. I only wanted to experience life as they do.”

“What else can you do?”

Jaskier smiles softly. “Everything.”

Geralt sighs and looks away, noting how the trees seem more full, and the moss on the forest floor seems greener. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jaskier scoffs. “Don’t be daft, Geralt. I know what your lot does to the fae folk. I’ve seen the wings nailed above door frames. I’ve seen the heads on pikes.”

“But have you seen _me_ do that?”

“Of course not, but Geralt, you must understand my position. You’ve been alive for, what, a hundred years? A hundred twenty? I’ve been alive for seven hundred and eighty. I’ve seen the first witchers slaughter my cousins. I’ve witnessed the Great Cleansing. I’ve seen how humans treat us.”

“I’m not-”

“Don’t be stupid. You know that you’re more human than you let on.”

Geralt hesitates, measuring his words. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Jaskier takes his hand. “I know that, love.”

Jaskier does not recast his glamour until they get closer to the next village. He seems less tired. He keeps up with Roach easily, and he moves stones and fallen trees out of their path. 

Geralt hunts.

Geralt hunts rabbits and deer for food, and he hunts bruxae and alghouls for coin. Jaskier hunts with him. 

Jaskier is too fast to see.

Jaskier is too strong to hold down.

Jaskier is too smart to catch.

Jaskier is too, too, too.

Jaskier is so much more than he was before.

But still exactly the same.

He loves music and women and men and shiny things.

He hates cramped inns and shitty ale and being dirty. 

He touches Geralt on the back while he passes by him, and Geralt feels strange. Like the strange coldness one feels when first getting into a steaming hot bath.

He lets down a bit of his glamour when they’re alone in an inn and Geralt feels his mind go foggy.

He kisses Geralt for the first time. 

They are in the woods, Jaskier is happy to be so close to nature, to his home.

He has let his glamour down, and he dances across the leaves and soil gracefully, trees bending out of their way and stones rolling away from Roach’s hooves.

They set up camp, and Jaskier prattles on about how he despises the latest musical trends while Geralt brushes Roach and agrees to whatever Jaskier says with a hum.

Jaskier moves over to him elegantly.

“Geralt?” Jaskier takes Geralt’s chin in his hand and plants a kiss on his lips, soft and chaste, before continuing his ramble about meter and rhyme. 

Geralt has heard lovers say they felt a pleasant dizziness after kissing their betrothed for the first time.

This is not that.

This dizziness makes the hair on his neck stand on end, and makes him unsteady on his feet. It makes his heart pound in a strange rhythm and the world around him spin and shake. Jaskier does not seem to notice this.

Lying awake on his bedroll, Geralt thinks about that kiss.

How, despite the nausea and uneasiness, it was rather nice. He recalls the pleasant, stinging tingle on his lips, and the strange heat radiating from Jaskier’s breath. 

Geralt has never kissed a man before. He knows that most humans don’t really fancy the concept. Does Jaskier even count as a man?

Does it matter?

Jaskier kisses him again.

They are in some anonymous inn in a small village, waiting for news of a contract. 

Jaskier has his glamour on, but he does not hesitate to make their food taste better, or to make their blankets a little softer.

Jaskier is about to go downstairs to begin his nightly performance while Geralt mends his armor. 

Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and presses their lips together. This one lasts longer, Jaskier squeezing them together before letting go nonchalantly and leaving Geralt alone.

Geralt feels the same dizziness and unease, but it goes away soon. 

He touches his lips.

They taste like honey now.

They taste like honey for days. 

Geralt and Jaskier enter a town. Before crossing its border, Jaskier stops.

“This place is wrong.” Jaskier is staring at a white flower growing at the base of a stone.

“We’ll be fine,” Geralt urges.

Jaskier is tense as they walk along the dirt road in the center of the town. 

They approach the alderman’s house. Jaskier sees a pair of horns above the door, bloodied.

Jaskier runs into the brush and vomits, tears streaming down his face.

They leave the town. 

Geralt and Jaskier enter a forest. After a few hours of walking, Jaskier removes his glamour and sings in the voices of a full choir. 

He is singing in Elder. Something about _elaine aen vatt’ghern_ , and something else about _caen me a’baethe Gwynbleidd_. Geralt has always been shite at Elder. 

Through a clearing in the trees, Geralt catches sight of a small ring of mushrooms. Jaskier follows his gaze and, with a wave of his hand, a thick patch of trees grows between them and the clearing.

“Should probably stay away from that, don’t want any trouble.” Jaskier seems nervous. 

Geralt knows what those mushrooms were, and he knows why Jaskier was nervous.

Geralt kisses Jaskier. 

They are alone in the forest. Jaskier is playing with some flowers while Geralt oils his swords. They ate a rabbit for supper. Jaskier muttered a small blessing over it before he let Geralt skin it. They sit now beside a roaring fire while Jaskier hums the tune to a song Geralt’s never heard before. 

When Geralt has finished sharpening his silver sword, he gets up to grab his steel. He steps over Jaskier’s outstretched legs, careful not to step on his feathers.

Before he sits back down, Geralt bends over Jaskier and takes his head in his gloved hand. This kiss is unlike their previous kisses. It is sharp and it stings and it tastes like smoke. Geralt does not want it to stop. 

He does not feel dizzy afterwards. Jaskier looks up at him with wide, wide eyes and a smile full of teeth.

They fall into a habit of kissing each other without a word. Always when they are alone. Never in public. 

Geralt is scared. Jaskier is not.

Geralt is scared. 

They sit on the bed in their shared room at an inn. Jaskier has draped a wing across Geralt’s body, and his head lies on his chest. His horns tickle Geralt’s chin, but Geralt’s hands are too deep in Jaskier’s hair for either of them to care. 

Jaskier sighs. “Have you ever been with a man, love?”

Geralt thinks for a moment. “No. Didn’t know I could.”

“You can. You are, I suppose.”

“Are you a man?”

“I think. Maybe.” 

“I’ve heard it’s different for Fae.”

“It is. You humans and your rules, it’s very hard to keep up, you know.”

“Hm.”

“You can kiss me in public.”

Geralt is quiet, pensive. “How?”

“Pardon?”

“How? People disdain me enough for sleeping with women. Don’t see how me being with a man would be any better. Worse, probably.”

Jaskier looks up at him, eyes full of sympathy and a dash of sorrow. “I’ll make sure no one has a second thought, love.”

“What about me?”

Jaskier blinks.

“I never knew I was allowed to do this. I feel like I’m breaking a rule.”

Jaskier sits up and rests a hand on Geralt’s cheek. “My dear, you are a mutated beast-slayer who’s been kissing a Fae prince that masquerades as a human for the last six months. I’m not sure if there are any rules left to break.”

Jaskier leans down and presses himself into Geralt, pushing his tongue into his mouth and inhaling his breath. Geralt knots his fingers into Jaskier’s hair as Jaskier bunches up Geralt’s tunic in his fist.

Geralt pulls away. “I love you.”

“Oh, dear heart, I love you, too.”

Geralt and Jaskier are travelling, as they always do.

They will always travel.

They will always travel, and they will always kiss without a second thought, and they will always stay away from small circles of mushrooms.

Geralt will always let Jaskier bless whatever he kills for dinner. Jaskier will always beg Geralt to stop for a while when they come across a picturesque stream.

They will never not travel.

Geralt will never stop Jaskier from stretching his wings when they’re far enough from humanity. Jaskier will never stop warning Geralt of signs that his family is near.

Jaskier’s hands will always drive Geralt. They will always push and they will always pull. His mouth will always be full of teeth, and he will always sing in two voices. 

**Author's Note:**

> so the title (wróżka) means "fairy" in polish, and Jaskier's mom's name (rzeka) means "river" in polish
> 
> also here's what jaskier is saying in elder:  
> elaine aen vatt’ghern- the beauty of the witcher  
> caen me a’baethe Gwynbleidd- give me a kiss, white wolf
> 
> comments make my day! :-D


End file.
